All Hearts Are Broken
by Jay Nice
Summary: Mycroft knows that caring is not an advantage. When Sherlock is broken up about his beloved dog Redbeard's death, it's about time he learns that too. Pre-series, KidLock.


**This was written while I was supposed to be sleeping, but I think it turned out all right. Kind of sad, as you may expect, and Mycroft-centric, because I love what goes on inside his head.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or Mycroft, sorry.**

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Mycroft Holmes was astounded to find his baby brother actually asleep in his arms. He wasn't known to be the most affectionate person in the world, often times called a git by seven year-old Sherlock, but he found himself strangely pleased that his brother had come to him for comfort on this most unfortunate day. He ran his fingers through Sherlock's dark, unruly hair and couldn't help but think about how he would require a haircut soon. The small boy shifted in his sleep, face pressed up against Mycroft's school-emblazoned vest and the smallest puddle of drool pouring out of the corner of his mouth. He hadn't actually gone to school today, instead opted out in order to help Mummy, but still found pride in wearing his school uniform in public—the fact that he was attending the school he was was quite an accomplishment. Sherlock was wearing his homemade pirate getup as he normally donned while not in school since he'd been pulled out today as well. Mycroft adored his brother's innocence and imagination that made him determined to become a pirate some day, but he also knew that Sherlock was capable of so much more. He should be focusing on his studies instead of playing dress up.

"Mycroft? Oh dear, is he okay?" Mycroft looked up to see Mummy Holmes, holding some delicious tea, something he desperately craved right now.

"Hardly," came his short-clipped answer. The boy in his arms wouldn't be okay for a while, but he would soon heal. He'd have to, or Mycroft would make him.

Mummy sighed, setting down the tray on the coffee table. "I knew this would happen. Maybe we should have sent him to school today—"

"No, it was for the best." Mycroft took the offered cuppa and drank a sip awkwardly without moving too much as to wake his brother. "He cried himself to sleep, you know."

Mrs. Holmes placed a ginger hand over her heart. "Oh my. Do you want me to take him? I'm sure you have things you should be doing."

Mycroft shook his head. "No, I think I'd like to hold him a bit more. I don't mind it."

She looked surprised for a moment, but nodded with a mouthed, "Okay." Mummy Holmes walked out of the sitting room, leaving the two brothers alone.

Mycroft placed a tender kiss on Sherlock's head. "It will all be better in the morning, little brother. I promise."

Eventually, it got late and Mycroft decided that he wanted to sleep in his own bed instead of out here on this wood-and-fabric chair that was putting uncomfortable knots in his back. He stood up slowly, grasping his brother tightly in his arms as he carried him to the boys' bedroom. Mycroft was fourteen now, and he didn't fancy having to share a room with Sherlock, but it was moments like this in which he didn't mind. He gently laid the boy down onto his bed, brushing aside the curled bangs from his eyes.

Mycroft was going to go to his own bed, but was interrupted by a small voice saying, "Mycroft?"

He stopped, turning to see Sherlock facing him in his bed. "Yes?" he patiently replied.

"Where's Redbeard?"

Mycroft's heart twisted painfully at his brother's whispered words. "He won't be coming home, Sherlock," he said. "Now go back to sleep, you have school early tomorrow."

Sherlock's lower lip wobbled, threatening a downpour of tears. "But I can't sleep without Redbeard."

Everything in Mycroft's being wanted to tell Sherlock to quit being foolish and to get over it, that Redbeard had been an old and sick dog who was on the verge of death anyway, but the logical side of him acknowledged that the boy was only a child, a mere infant in Mycroft's eyes. "You can sleep with me tonight, but only this once," he ended up saying. He was tackled with a flurry of ebony curls and gut-wrenching sobs. He held his brother once more as he cried, not uttering a word instead letting him get all of his sorrows out. The boy fell asleep soon, arms wrapped around Mycroft as if he were clutching a teddy in his sleep. Or Redbeard.

Mycroft took to fingering Sherlock's hair again, before finally succumbing to the pulls of sleep.

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He awoke after his brother the next morning, and was unsurprised to find the boy alone in the sitting room, staring blankly at the wall. He looked like someone who'd just been told they were dying from an obscure illness. Yet there were no tears that Mycroft could see, and that was a good sign. He sat beside his brother wordlessly, picking up the newspaper that their father always left for Mycroft to look at. He was reading about a fascinating development in a local murder case (not really that fascinating, as the murderer was obviously the woman's step-mother and Scotland Yard were too thick to see that, but nonetheless Mycroft marveled at their incompetency) when Sherlock piped up, saying softly, "Mycroft?"

"What is it, little brother?"

There was a moment's hesitation which Mycroft didn't miss. "I miss Redbeard," Sherlock said finally, eyes wide with anguish as he looked at his brother.

Mycroft sighed. "I know, Sherlock."

"But..." Sherlock started, then cut off his statement.

"But what?" Mycroft frowned. "Spit it out."

"You aren't upset at all," Sherlock stated, his words rushed due to his nervousness. "How?"

Mycroft set the newspaper down and looked his brother in the eyes. "Listen to me Sherlock. Really listen to me. I need you to hear this."

Sherlock nodded somberly, eager to hear what his brother had to say.

"All lives end. All hearts are broken," he said in a low voice. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

He expected Sherlock to take it the wrong way an burst into tears again, but the young boy only nodded. "Okay," he whispered lightly. "Okay, I understand."

"Good." Mycroft gave him one last pat on the back, not knowing that his advice would be taken seriously and that this would be the last time he'd ever talk to William Scott Sherlock Holmes, ship master to-be, instead being replaced by Sherlock Holmes, high-functioning sociopath and loved by none.

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**I'd love to hear what you thought, or how many tears you shed, while reading this!**


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